shoot the shit, you know? Sports, whatever, and then you’d give me another bottle.”
“We could do that. We could. Same thing, though. Couple guys, sitting around, hey, how ’bout them Mets, them Dodgers, them Cubs, how’s your life, how’s things, how’s that ex-wife of yours …”
Roy can’t help but grin; Klein has an easy way about him. He almost likes the guy. “You wanna know about Heather?” Roy says.
“If you’re ready to talk about it.”
“Sure I can talk about it, but it ain’t that interesting.”
“Boring stories are my specialty,” says Klein.
“Okay,” Roy says. “I’ll tell you about Heather.”
She Was nineteen when they met, nineteen and well aware of her body. She moved like a belly dancer when she walked, and like a gymnast when she made love. There was nothing inflexible about Heather. She was open for anything, for fun and excitement and danger. She wasn’t there when you needed her and usually there if you didn’t. Heather was always on the fringe, always looking in. Never getting caught.
Roy caught her. He was eight months out of a failed army stint, discharge papers in his back pocket. Angry at nobody and everybody all at the same time. He fought a lot those days.Drank a lot, too. Forgot most of the fights. The club that night was known for its brawls. Roy had never been. He would never go back, either.
She was dancing in the middle of a crowd of men, her long, waist-length hair shaking to the music. Ass wrapped up tight in leather pants. Halter top cupping the small, firm breasts. Center of attention on the lower left quad of the dance floor, and she knew it. Flaunted it. Later, once they were dating, Roy found out that she’d rub her nipples before stepping out onto any dance floor. She wanted them out like that. Needed them to announce her presence. That was Heather.
Roy was out that night with a buddy, a kid from the old neighborhood. He’d just been dumped, needed a trip out. But the guy was morose. Cried in his beer and wanted to leave. But Roy saw Heather at the bar and ordered her a drink. They had a cocktail together, they talked, they laughed. He put his hand on her ass, and she didn’t move it. After a bit, another man, a man she knew, came to the bar and dragged her onto the dance floor. Roy didn’t mind. Roy could wait.
He sat at the bar for an hour. Waiting patiently for the crowd to disperse, for the songs to end. For Heather to leave the circle of men, to come back to the bar. But the next song came on, and the dancing went on. More men joined the group. Heather and five guys. Surrounding her. Pressing against her. Groping her. Roy began to feel that pressure under his head, the one that made his neck hot and his vision blurry. It was the same feeling he got right before … right before he got his discharge papers.
He hit the dance floor. Tapped one of the men on the shoulder. “Cut in?” he shouted over the music. The guy didn’t even turn around. “Cut in?” Roy yelled again. This time, a hand appearedin front of his face, palm pressing into his nose. Pushing away, pushing at him.
The feeling grew stronger, that terrible pressure under his hairline, like something was trying to get out. Something roaring inside. He tried again, tried to muscle into the circle, but the writhing bodies bounced him out. In the middle, he could see the girl dancing. Her hair, her breasts, her laughing lips.
When he tried to cut in again, one of the men—a boy, really, a skinny redhead no older than Roy—stepped out and pushed him hard across the chest. “Why don’t you leave it alone?” he yelled. “She’s ours now.”
Roy still doesn’t remember exactly what happened, but every time he tells the story, he can recall a little bit more. Like a collage, adding parts each time.
He caught that boy’s wrist, snapped it back, bent it, broke it in two. Bone poking through skin. Screams pierced the nightclub air, fighting with the music. The pressure
“We could do that. We could. Same thing, though. Couple guys, sitting around, hey, how ’bout them Mets, them Dodgers, them Cubs, how’s your life, how’s things, how’s that ex-wife of yours …”
Roy can’t help but grin; Klein has an easy way about him. He almost likes the guy. “You wanna know about Heather?” Roy says.
“If you’re ready to talk about it.”
“Sure I can talk about it, but it ain’t that interesting.”
“Boring stories are my specialty,” says Klein.
“Okay,” Roy says. “I’ll tell you about Heather.”
She Was nineteen when they met, nineteen and well aware of her body. She moved like a belly dancer when she walked, and like a gymnast when she made love. There was nothing inflexible about Heather. She was open for anything, for fun and excitement and danger. She wasn’t there when you needed her and usually there if you didn’t. Heather was always on the fringe, always looking in. Never getting caught.
Roy caught her. He was eight months out of a failed army stint, discharge papers in his back pocket. Angry at nobody and everybody all at the same time. He fought a lot those days.Drank a lot, too. Forgot most of the fights. The club that night was known for its brawls. Roy had never been. He would never go back, either.
She was dancing in the middle of a crowd of men, her long, waist-length hair shaking to the music. Ass wrapped up tight in leather pants. Halter top cupping the small, firm breasts. Center of attention on the lower left quad of the dance floor, and she knew it. Flaunted it. Later, once they were dating, Roy found out that she’d rub her nipples before stepping out onto any dance floor. She wanted them out like that. Needed them to announce her presence. That was Heather.
Roy was out that night with a buddy, a kid from the old neighborhood. He’d just been dumped, needed a trip out. But the guy was morose. Cried in his beer and wanted to leave. But Roy saw Heather at the bar and ordered her a drink. They had a cocktail together, they talked, they laughed. He put his hand on her ass, and she didn’t move it. After a bit, another man, a man she knew, came to the bar and dragged her onto the dance floor. Roy didn’t mind. Roy could wait.
He sat at the bar for an hour. Waiting patiently for the crowd to disperse, for the songs to end. For Heather to leave the circle of men, to come back to the bar. But the next song came on, and the dancing went on. More men joined the group. Heather and five guys. Surrounding her. Pressing against her. Groping her. Roy began to feel that pressure under his head, the one that made his neck hot and his vision blurry. It was the same feeling he got right before … right before he got his discharge papers.
He hit the dance floor. Tapped one of the men on the shoulder. “Cut in?” he shouted over the music. The guy didn’t even turn around. “Cut in?” Roy yelled again. This time, a hand appearedin front of his face, palm pressing into his nose. Pushing away, pushing at him.
The feeling grew stronger, that terrible pressure under his hairline, like something was trying to get out. Something roaring inside. He tried again, tried to muscle into the circle, but the writhing bodies bounced him out. In the middle, he could see the girl dancing. Her hair, her breasts, her laughing lips.
When he tried to cut in again, one of the men—a boy, really, a skinny redhead no older than Roy—stepped out and pushed him hard across the chest. “Why don’t you leave it alone?” he yelled. “She’s ours now.”
Roy still doesn’t remember exactly what happened, but every time he tells the story, he can recall a little bit more. Like a collage, adding parts each time.
He caught that boy’s wrist, snapped it back, bent it, broke it in two. Bone poking through skin. Screams pierced the nightclub air, fighting with the music. The pressure
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